I AM A HORSE
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Ighe fact that I’m standing here placid and still; if truth be told, I’ve been galloping for turies; I’ve passed over plains, fought in battles, carried off the melancholy daughters of shahs to be wed; I’ve galloped tirelessly page by page from story to history, from history to legend and from book to book; I’ve appeared in tless stories, fables, books and battles; I’ve apanied invincible heroes, legendary lovers and fantastic armies; I’ve galloped from campaign to campaign with our victorious sultans, and as a result, I’ve appeared in tless illustrations.How does it feel, you ask, to be painted so often?
Of course, I’m proud of myself. Yet, I also questioher, indeed, it <samp>.</samp>is I beied in all cases. It is evident from these pictures that I’m perceived differently by everyoill, I have the strong sehat there’s a onality, a unity to the illustrations.
My miniaturist friends were reting a story retly, and from it, I learhe following: The king of
the Frankish infidels was sidering marriage to the daughter of the Veian Doge. He was sidering it, but then he lagued with the thought, “What if this Veian is poor and his daughter ugly?” To reassure himself, he ordered his best artist to paint the Veian Doge’s daughter, possessions, property and belongings. The Veians could care less abbbr></abbr>out gross indecy: They’ll expose not only their daughters to the prying eyes of the artist, but their horses and palazzos, as well. The gifted infidel artist could depict a maiden or a horse in such a way that you’d be able to pick either out of a crowd. Ba his courtyard, as the Frankish king examihe pictures from Venice, p whether he should take the maiden as his wife, his stallion, suddenly aroused, attempted to mount the attractive mare in the painting, and the hrooms were hard pressed t the ferocious animal under trol before he destroyed the picture and its frame with his huge member.
They say that it wasn’t the beauty of the Veian mare th<var></var>at had aroused the Frankish stallion—though she was iriking—but the act of taking a particular mare and painting a picture in her exact likeness. Now, the question arises: Is it sinful to be depicted as that mare had been, that is, like a real mare? In my case, as you see, there is very little differeween my image and other pictures of horses.
Actually, those of you who pay particular attention to the gray midse, the length of my legs and the pride of my bearing will uand that I am indeed unique. But these excelleures point to the uniqueness of the miniaturist who illustrated me, not to my uniqueness as a horse. Everyone knows that there’s no horse exactly like me. I’m simply the rendering of a horse that exists in a miniaturist’s imagination.
Looking at me, observers frequently say, “Good God, what a geous horse!” But they’re actually praising the artist, not me. All horses are in fact distinct, and the miniaturist, above all, ought to know this.
Take a close look, even a given stallion’s a resemble another’s. Don’t be afraid, you exami up close, and even take it in your hands: My God-given marvel has a shape and curve all its own.
Now then, all miniaturists illustrate all horses from memory in the same way, even though we’ve each been uniquely created by Allah, Greatest of all Creators. Why do they take pride in simply rendering thousands and tens of thousands of horses in the same way without ever truly looking at us? I’ll tell you why: Because they’re attempting to depict the world that God perceives, not the world that they see. Doesn’t that amount to challenging God’s unity, that is—Allah forbid—isn’t it saying that I could do the work of God? Artists who are distent with what they see with their own eyes, artists who draw the same horse a thousand times asserting that what rests in their imagination is God’s horse, artists who claim that the best horse is what blind miniaturists draw from memory, aren’t they all itting the sin of peting with Allah?
The yles of the Frankish masters aren’t blasphemous, quite the opposite, they’re the most in
keeping with our faith. I pray that my Erzurumi brethren don’t misua displeases me that Frankish infidels parade their women around half naked, indifferent to pious modesties, that they don’t uand the pleasures of coffee and handsome boys, and that they roam about with -shaven faces, yet with hair as long as women’s, claiming that Jesus is also the Lod—Allah protect us. I bee so aggravated by these Franks that if I ever came across one, I’d give him a good mule kick.
Still, I’m sick of being incorrectly depicted by miniaturists who sit around the house like ladies and never go off to war. They’ll depict me at a gallop with both of my fs exte the same time. There isn’t a horse in this world that runs like a rabbit. If one of my fs is forward, the other is aft. trary to what’s depicted in battle illustrations, there isn’t a horse in this world that extends one f like a curious dog, leaving the other firmly planted on the ground. There is no spahi cavalry division ience whose horses saunter in unison, as if traced with aical stencil twenty times back to back. We horses sge for ahe green grass at our feet when nobody is looking. We never assume a statuesque stand wait around elegantly, the way we’re shown in paintings. Why is everybody so embarrassed about our eating, drinking, shitting and sleeping? Why are they afraid to depict this wondrous God-given and unique implement of mine? On the sly, women and children, in particular, love to stare at it, and what’s the harm in this? Is the Hoja from Erzurum against this as well?
They say that once upon a time there was a feeble and nervous shah in Shiraz. He was in mortal fear that his enemies would have him deposed so his son could assume the throne; rather than sending the prio Isfahan as provincial governor, he imprisoned him<q>?9９liｂ?</q> in the most out of the way room of his palace. The prince grew up and lived in this makeshift cell, which looked onto her courtyard narden, for thirty-one years. After his father’s allotted time oh ran out, the prince, who’d lived aloh his books, asded the throne and declared: “I and that y me a horse. I’ve always seen pictures of them in books, and am curious about them.” They brought him the most beautiful gray steed in the palace, but when the new king saw that the horse had nostrils like mine-shafts, a shameless ass, a coat duller than in the illustrations and a brutish rump, he was so disented that he had all the horses in his kingdom massacred. After this brutal slaughter, which lasted forty days, all the kingdom’s rivers flowed a somber red. But Exalted Allah did not refrain from meting out His justice: The king now had no cavalry whatsoever, and when faced with the army of his aremy, the Turkmen Bey of the Blacksheep , he was routed and, in the end, hacked apart. Let there be no doubt: As all the histories will reveal, the nation of horses had taken its revenge.
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